The Echo

The gas station was an island of fluorescent light in a sea of black pines.

Caleb sat in the driver’s seat of Simon’s Range Rover. He was shivering, wrapped in a blanket he found in the trunk. The drugs were wearing off, leaving him with a headache that felt like a drill bit behind his eyes.

He had driven for an hour down the logging road. He hadn't cried. He hadn't spoken.

He walked into the station. The attendant, a teenager with acne and headphones, didn't look up.

Caleb walked to the coffee counter. He poured a cup of black coffee. His hands were steady.

Above the counter, a small TV was playing the late-night news.

*"...police are expanding the search radius for the so-called 'Seer Killer'," the anchor said.*

Caleb froze. He looked up at the screen.

*"Authorities have linked three murders in the Olympic Peninsula to a suspect who leaves elaborate, antique-style journals at the scene of the crime,"* the reporter continued. *"The journals contain prophecies regarding the victims' deaths. Police are warning residents to be on the lookout for..."*

The screen flashed an image of an evidence bag. Inside was a black, leather-bound book.

It was identical to the one Simon had.

Caleb stopped breathing.

* He printed it,* Caleb thought. *I saw the 'Made in China' sticker. I saw the coffee stains.*

But did he? Or had the drugs already started working when he looked at the book? Had he hallucinated the "Made in China" sticker because his mind desperately wanted a rational explanation?

Or...

Did Simon find the real killer's book in the library? Did Simon read it, think it was a game, and decide to act it out, unknowingly stepping into a script that had already been written?

* The Broken One shall not leave this ridge.*

Caleb looked at the glass door of the gas station.

Outside, under the harsh glare of the sodium lights, a large black crow landed on the pavement. It looked through the glass at Caleb. It tapped its beak against the pane.

* Tap. Tap.*

The automatic door slid open.

The wind blew in, carrying the smell of rain and old earth.

Caleb stood there, the coffee burning his scarred hand, waiting to see who—or what—would walk through the door next.